


andy you're a star

by lo fi asmr (s0dafucker)



Category: Andy You're a Star (Song), Original Work, The Killers (Band)
Genre: Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Original Characters - Freeform, Period-Typical Homophobia, Songfic, ft. how much can i describe blockbuster without using the word blockbuster, i know that the song isnt actually gay but let me have this, ish, like its definitely in there but its vague, not really fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 10:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/lo%20fi%20asmr
Summary: (in nobody's eyes but mine)





	andy you're a star

‘shut up,’ glances between sets of dark eyes, denim and brick rough against each other, smoke and secret smiles.

andy passes you the cigarette, hand-rolled in your basement and foreign in his hands, touching his mouth and then yours, scuffed sneakers and letterman jacket, shoulders touching, hands brushing, rain falling just loud enough to dampen your words; anything you say behind the school is for the two of you.

-

lockers bang shut, metal on metal on voices too loud for you, tugging a shirt over your head and fixing your eyes on the floor. his laugh echoes in a space this small, no parking lot and overcast to cushion the sound of him, just the smell of sweat and soap and his voice and your fingers fumbling over your shoelaces. he looks at you like he knows, tan and tall and smiling that too-wide grin, and you trip over your own feet all the way into the hall.

-

‘shut up,’ he tells you, locked away in his basement, silver in the moonlight and smiling just for you. he cuts you off in the middle of stumbling over your words, presses lips that are chapped from practice out in the october air against yours and makes your stomach flip like your first rollercoaster, calloused hands getting lost in your hair, slipping under your shirt, a permanent shiver down your spine.

your back is against a half-deflated air mattress and the air smells like must but andy is warm, his mouth damp on your neck, both of you nervous and unsure and sweat-slick. the rain patters outside the window, the low hum of the space heater and his soft breathing and the look he gives you monday morning makes you warm all over.

-

the team goes out to the burger joint by his house after a game, everyone drunk on the win and hanging on each other- his arm ends up slung around your shoulder when you settle into a booth, and he laughs too close to your ear, his chest flush against your side. you take small sips of your soda, your cheeks hot, and you laugh when he ruffles your hair, laugh when coach expects you to, laugh when the shit-talking starts- and then the other team are faggots and your heart is pounding in your ears, trying to force the laughter but it won’t come anymore, a cold spot in your chest where it was warm a moment before.

they’re still yelling, grinning, and his arm is still around you and then he looks down, a little, like he can feel your cold and he raises his eyebrows and you try to smile but it feels too tight around the edges, feels too much like a grimace; he notices and then his long fingers are prodding at your ribs, coaxing a laugh that you both know is to placate, to disguise, but it’s okay because you can feel sparks from where his hand has stilled but has yet to move and your lungs feel lighter. you’re next to andy and you won the game and it’s a russian nesting doll of okay-notokay-okay, chipped paint on a fold-up card table, cigarette butts in fresh-cut grass and ‘that’ll be $20’ when you know it’s easily worth $50, andy’s arm toned and warm and his jacket being more at home on him than yours ever was on you.

-

you use the same lighter for your clumsy cigarettes that he does for prayer candles, and you watch his back as he loads a vhs, exhaling and listening to the floorboards creak above you. the coach is off-orange and something like suede under your fingers, black gray burns that you trace while he rewinds, the pad of your index finger moving in perfect charred circles. your cuticles are red and raw and when andy lays his hand on top of yours, holds it gently to stop your nervous movements, the two of you look strange next to each other. your long, scarred fingers underneath his broad palms.

your tongue darts over your lips, once, twice; your thighs touch and the movie is one you’ve seen before, his hand close enough to your leg that you know it’s an offer, but your fingers stay clasped in your lap. your mouth is dry and he will never ask to hold your hand. someone might hear. even if coach, his dad, his friends can’t hear- he will, and you will, and that’s enough. you can’t blame him, but somehow you do, hands folded in an imitation of neatness and the words are out before you can think about them, ‘are things serious with her?‘ in a voice that tries to be casual but falls short and lands in almost-cold, a voice that you don’t recognize.

he denies, his hand back in his own space and eyes fixed on his knees- _i didn’t do anything with her, and if i did-_ he gets angry, voice low and shakey- _you shouldn’t’ve been looking in my fucking car in the first place-_ and then he starts to bargain and before you can start to think that maybe these stages aren’t his to go through, he starts to win you over, because he cons and negotiates with his lips and his hands and his grin, and you’re the mark that can’t wise up. the movie ends up long forgotten, playing behind his ears while he kneels between your thighs, swallowing like one of the girls in your dad’s hidden tapes because he wouldn’t be able to explain the stain to his folks.

‘i don’t do that with her.‘ he says, eyes glittering above his locker room smile, and you believe him. you skip to acceptance and let him wrap an arm around your shoulder.

-

you’re underweight, barely jv, and the scrap of paper tucked into the slats of your locker is so small you can barely imagine him writing it. it’s too small for your hands, hands that shake and sweat and clutch the paper so tight you’re worried about ruining it.

he has a phone in his room and the two of you don’t speak when he answers; he mutters that his little brother might be on the line downstairs and you twist the cord around your finger until it turns white.

-

his laugh echoing in the empty hallway, your fingers ghosting over the trophy case, his name etched in gold. cold tiled walls and warm skin and your cheeks ache- the good kind of pain, tired, happy pain, and you toss ‘shut up,’ over your shoulder because it’s late and you won’t ever want to go home if he keeps making you smile.

he’s content today, wrapped up in his jacket and getting snowflakes in his eyelashes, holding your hand ‘to keep you from getting frostbite.‘ he kisses the tips of your fingers when you’re out of reach of streetlights, soft gold licking at your torn-up shoes, and you hook your arms around his neck, your foreheads touching. his arms find your waist and you sway gently, circling, wearing away at the dusting of snow. your breath comes in clouds, mouths close enough to touch and his eyes like hot chocolate.

andy smiles, the small smile no one else has ever seen, and your ears are numb but who could care when you’re falling into him, feeling his hair beneath your fingers and his chest against yours.

-

your shirt is polyester and you answer the phone with ‘yes, we’re open,’ tapping the counter and stealing kit-kats and watching the snow fall outside. your collar itches and you’re in the back because someone forgot to _be kind, rewind!_ when the door jingles.

it’s him, and he’s with her, and the corporate greeting dies on your tongue (it’s thanksgiving, they have families, the rewind machine is humming in your ears).

they rent dirty dancing and she hangs on his arm and you let him have a pack of m&ms ‘on the house,‘ your knees shaking behind the counter and both of your smiles too polite, too casual, and he says something that isn’t even that funny, about you giving away product, but you tell him to shut up and it’s suddenly too genuine, his laugh and rough polyester on the nape of your neck and the rewind machine is making a noise it shouldn’t and she is so small next to him, so pretty and soft and girly, so all-american wholesome. so perfect, even when you’re close enough to see gray tracks of mascara down her cheeks and the cracks in her lips where the red doesn't reach.

the bell jingles and you brace yourself against the counter, cold metal cutting into your hand and breath coming in choked gasps.  

-

you spend your nights belowground, your own poured concrete floor and tobacco or his shag carpet and warm skin; one addiction or the other. 

he wraps his arms around you, presses kisses to the juncture between your neck and shoulder, the place where you wish, irrationally, he would leave bruises. the inside of your head feels like the cotton-candy-pink of insulation, suffocating and soft and empty. it’s not a bad feeling; impermanent, maybe, but you turn your head to kiss him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhh its me, ya boi, here with some funky shit 
> 
> ive listened to hot fuss like 400 times in the past 2 days and this was the result


End file.
